scars

scars are permanent: beautiful marks of glory or pain, suffering or determination; each with its own story. whether they are worn on the heart, body, mind, or soul, these marks trace the history of their bearers' lives. a map of tragedy and triumph, scars cannot be ignored or hidden. i sit alone this evening nursing my knee with ice and the rest of my being with a nicely rolled spliff wondering if my fresh wounds will leave scars that i'll remember years from now. i crashed and burned today while free climbing wet rocks in the mountains. promised photography found me, at the time of the spill, with camera in hand leaving my body as the safety between the hard rock and my promise. those closest to me know that promises are not something taken lightly so with my body as the barrier, i took the brunt of a few rocks. my head now a little filled with smoke, i ponder over the newly developed scars; some visible, some not - all scratching at the surface to mold the core. the scars are beautiful and mold beauty. my knee will heal with time, and the scar will tell the story.

fff#53

this fff proved a huge challenge for me for reasons i can't explain. nevertheless, thanks to jj for providing the starter: i saw her/him through the smoke... thanks to my dreams for inspiration.

i saw her through the smoke and the crowd like i did every thursday night. she never missed a show. guitar in hand, every thursday i would stand under the dim stage lights of that shitty basement bar and wait for her. she would stroll in each week about half way through my set to watch me, and i knew it. she was beautiful and something about her constant gaze made me incredibly curious as i watched her watching me.

she would only stop staring when she danced to a few certain songs – songs i had now learned to play later in my set when i was sure she’d be there to enjoy them. watching her body move was voyeuristic, to say the least. even with the bar full of smoke and drunks, it often felt like she was dancing just for me and I was playing just for her. this relationship lasted months. each week would find her closer and closer to the stage until she was finally right up front. she would dance for me, i would sing to her, but still, we would never talk.

it was a beautiful romance, and i never even knew her name.

fff#52

thanks to angela for inspiring jj for giving us all a great sentence for this week's fff. "her arms shackled to the stone floor and her wings constricted by leather binding..." her arms shackled to the stone floor and her wings constricted by leather binding, she would scream if her mouth weren’t forced shut. during operations such as this they had to force her mouth shut – the pain might otherwise scare her into breathing fire uncontrollably which, needless to say, was plenty dangerous. the scaly, thick skin was surprisingly softer than expected and would not pose a problem for such a skilled surgeon who had operated on nearly a dozen supposed mythical creatures in the past; none as important as this dragon. while this surgeon had always been successful, it was still a nervous time for one little girl. dia loved her dragon, lara, more than anything. lara had been with her from the beginning and had flown her anywhere she wanted to go every day of her life. their bond was simply unbreakable. they traveled together, watched sunsets together, ate meals together, and slept together. dia would read lara stories at night before hugging her strong around the neck and falling asleep. they would die for each other so it wasn’t shocking that dia felt a small piece of her died when lara’s wing was partially torn from her body and needed immediate surgery. thankfully the expert surgeon was available. dia waited patiently, trying to keep lara calm while they strapped her down to the ground – all safety precautions for dia and the surgeon. lara’s wings, claws, tail, fangs, and, of course, fire could all prove incredibly treacherous if she were to twitch during the operation. in actuality if she wanted to she could break through the straps and shackles like they were twigs, but dia’s voice and gentle touch would keep her friend calm over the course of the surgery. as the surgery began and the doctor reached for the wing it became abundantly clear just how loose and delicate it was. it was worn and even softer than the rest of lara’s body as if her insides had been forced out, and in fact they had. from the wing poured what seemed like little clouds of white smoke; typical for dragons of this type. the smoke would have to be replaced if lara would ever fly again. the surgeon mysteriously was able to catch and hold the smoke with her hands and work it back down into the wing. slowly the bellowing cloud of smoke that dispensed from lara’s wing vanished as it began to take shape. the surgeon then took her needle and threaded back and forth through the scaly, soft skin suturing the tear closed. completing the surgery, the surgeon laid a band-aid across the stitching and, lifting her daughter’s favorite stuffed animal off the slate floor, kissed lara’s wound, then her dia’s forehead and reunited old friends. dia’s face lit up as she was returned her best friend and immediately grabbed lara around the neck as they flew off to their bedroom. it was time for a story and some sleep – dia knew lara would need her rest.

fff#51

the plan was simple – make a trip across the border and make some extra money. it would never be enough money to disappear completely but it would certainly relocate me far enough to start a new life. a life away from this urban nightmare where i wouldn’t have to hide. no more dodging bullets and dirty cops. the city had been fucked for nearly a decade and i wanted out. maybe the chance at a new life clouded my mind and i didn’t fully understand what i was getting into, but this seemed no different than the game i always ran, except now the rewards outweighed the risks ten times over.

with runs like this i was rarely the only person offered the job and this time would be no exception. there were three couriers at the boss’ meeting other than myself and i could only assume that they all got an offer too – the world might call us transporters but we preferred “couriers,” even if what we carried was typically illegal. one of the other three was a real asshole who called himself switch – no one else knew his real name was malcolm. he worked alone and covered the same turf i did. if i ever lost a job, it was to him.

crossing the border wasn’t exactly something to look forward to. residents of the eastside had been banished from the rest of the city ever since the riots and anyone crossing the border into the city was supposed to be killed on sight. i had crossed in daylight plenty of times before but that was normally in the back of a police car – for runs like this i’d wait ‘til night. cops might not patrol the eastside but those dirty scumbags would come looking whenever they needed a somebody to take a fall. avoiding them and border patrol, i’d have to cross over, collect the package (i had stopped wondering what was in them), and bring it back in tact; and it would have to be tonight.

everyone from the eastside knew the safest way to cross into the city was through the sewers. years of dumped toxins and its faulty structure made the sewers quite dangerous which seemed to keep the cops and border patrol at bay. i ducked into the sewer just after midnight, knowing i would be on the run the moment my feet hit the sludge. it reeked like shit and window cleaner which served as a constant reminder that i was probably inhaling some unknown poison and expedited my trek across the border.

about 20 blocks later i climbed up a ladder that spit me out into an alley well within the city limits. i crawled behind a dumpster to let my lungs and head clear the fumes of the sewer. any of the other transporters could be close so i sat for only a few moments before heading for the warehouse. the warehouse was the one building in the city that could be mistaken for the eastside. it had nearly burned to the ground years earlier when a witness in a case against the boss tragically died the day before trial. it was never rebuilt, which made access easy.

i went up the stairs toward the room where the package was supposedly held. i knew now by the amount of ether in the air that the package was probably a hefty sum of coke – whoever had cut the cocaine had done it right here in the warehouse. i approached the package, an army-issued olive green backpack, but just as i pulled it onto my shoulders i heard a voice. i would’ve known that voice anywhere. it was malcolm. i knew he was close.

in this world of transporting it’s all about running, but i was tired of running; that’s why i took this job to begin with. pulling my gun from my belt, i spun to face him, and fired… but the little creep beat me to it.